


i was home

by hellwheelers



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Angst, M/M, Song fic, Theo-centric, a look into the relationship between boris and theo, basically just pining theo, but he doesnst know hes pining, drug / alcohol is mentioned but theres not any heavy details, i'M SAD, kinda a character study ??, obvi some spoilers, takes place during badr al-dine, yknow?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 03:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20146561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellwheelers/pseuds/hellwheelers
Summary: based on the song home by active bird communitytake of break from the nsfw you horny bastardsread my angst





	i was home

_we spent six long weeks in the sun_

The idea of moving to Vegas had set a pile of rocks in Theo’s stomach, weighing him down, making him sluggish. He had just begun coming to terms with his mother’s death, had just let himself begin to live without feeling guilty, when his father showed up. His father _and Xandra._ Theo wanted to scream, kick, cry, to say he didn’t want a new mother, that he wanted his mother, but he couldn’t. 

So he moved to Vegas. With what few belongings he had, painting stored in his baggage, he found himself boarding a plane, flying drowsily across the country, and landing in what was essentially a hot, deserted wasteland. Somehow, their house was even more deserted, way out in the middle of nowhere. There weren’t even neighbors.

It was in the middle of nowhere, Theo met Boris.

Well, not literally. He met Boris in school, but the time they spent together was in vacated lots, their own miserable houses, the roads of the desert. The sun would beat down on them, and then the moon would soothe the burns. For weeks upon weeks they spent every waking — and more often than not, sleeping — hour together, talking and laughing. 

For once in his life, Theo felt he belonged. The rocks in his stomach were removed by pale, slim-fingered hands. He could walk, breathe, talk, eat, _live_ because of Boris. 

In a way, Boris was a lot like the sun; if Theo hadn’t gone to Vegas, he’d have never known he would love either as much as he did.

_getting higher than life was an idea i called fun_

In the time they spent together, Boris introduced Theo to new things in his life. Drugs, alcohol, sex. Most of their time was spent high out of their minds, different drugs muddling their adolescent minds. If he hadn’t met Boris, he would’ve never considered trying anything his well traveled friend did regularly. A tab of acid in the park, two joints in the living room, cocaine in an abandoned house. 

It was fun, though. Theo enjoyed life — except the part where he came down from his high — when he was with Boris, high or not. Because in reality, being around Boris was a little like being high. Theo felt like he could do anything with him, would do anything for him. He would take the crack of Mr. Pavlikovsky’s cane over his head, a kick to the ribs, a dozen slaps across the face. He would take it all if it meant Boris wouldn’t have wine red bruises, jagged scars, busted lips, black eyes, pain. 

Theo thought he had to be a little high to think that.

_there was nothing twisting my gut_

Since his mother died, Theo thought about her every day. Everything reminded him of her, especially in New York. The tall, protective skyscrapers, keeping the sun from burning his pale skin. The saturation of the highlighter yellow cabs against the gloomy, rain-soaked sky. Vegas didn’t have those. It had dirt and open blue skies and most importantly, Boris. 

When he was with Boris, he didn’t grieve for his mother or wallow in his own guilt. He didn’t feel the sharp knife of sadness plunging into his chest and stomach, like that time he got the stomach flu. He was comfortable, happy, _good_. Theo couldn’t say that before. For once, he didn’t worry, didn’t trudge around like a raincloud followed him around, drenching him. Nothing _hurt_ with Boris. Life was fun and it didn’t really have meaning but it didn’t matter because he was enjoying being alive for the first time in years.

God, he was lucky to have met Boris.

_there was nothing i felt i had to run from_

After his father had left and his mother died and he was practically homeless while living in a home, Theo felt like he was running. Running from those scary official men who were searching for the painting he had, running from the sadness that dragged him down into nightmares each night, running from the questions thrown at him daily.

For once, he was running towards something. He ran towards the time he got to spend with Boris after school, to their time in the park, to their nights shared in Theo’s bed. He had something that was his — not the Barbours’, not his parents’, not Andy’s. 

Boris was his.

_i was home, i was home_

In Boris’s arms, Theo remembered what it was like to be home. His father’s in Vegas wasn’t a home, it was a house. The apartment he had with his mother was a home, but that was ripped from his hands. Anywhere with Boris was home.

Nowhere felt more comfortable, more safe than Theo’s bed on the nights Boris stayed over, limbs tangled together as they sprawled across his mattress. The blanket would be trapped between their bodies and arms and legs, barely providing any heat but that was ok. Boris was warm enough. 

Because Boris was always everything Theo needed.

_drinking fire like wine_

Vodka, Theo had found, burned his mouth, throat, chest, and stomach, as it went down. He could feel the harsh burn of it slipping through him, searing a path from the inside out. He would cough every time, but it was okay because it made Boris laugh, and as long as Boris was laughing, all was right in the world. 

Alcohol was like liquid fire. Once it settled in his stomach, it warmed his belly like a furnace, spreading to his chest and his face, painting a pink hue across his cheeks “like the sunset over the desert”, Boris had once said. 

He didn’t see the deep flush that spread down Theo’s neck.

_a couple liquor store diamonds_

On top of all the things Boris had introduced into Theo’s life, he had shown him his mastery of the art of thievery, then taught him it. They would enter stores that sold everything — including alcohol — and pocket whatever they had wanted, granted it would fit in their pockets. It was exhilarating, just like any other moment with Boris was, to be breaking the law, knowing they could be caught. Small bottles of cheap vodka were slipped into the pockets of Boris’s oversized jacket, candy and tiny chip bags in Theo’s, sticks of beef jerky in their jean pockets. Theo felt like life was fun again. 

Then again, when wasn’t life fun with Boris?

_the tales of the girls, and the places they’ve been_

The only time Theo didn’t like being around Boris was when Kotku came into the picture. He was obsessed with her, constantly eating into their time to make room for her. It settled in his stomach like rocks, not dissimilar to what he felt when he moved to Vegas. For once, Boris wasn’t _his_, and he had to share him. Theo didn’t like that very much. Didn’t like the hickeys crawling up his neck when they hung out. 

When they were together, on those rare occasions, Boris would retell Kotku’s stories with his own commentary. Tales of her homeless days, of what her mother got up to, what she got up to. He’d follow it up with his own stories, exotic tales of lands Theo could only dream of going to. Theo was enchanted, hanging on to each word Boris spoke. 

Every time, it ended the same; Boris answering a call from Kotku and leaving Theo alone, disappointed.

_something like regret was a foreign concept_

Over the year he knew Boris, Theo didn’t regret a single thing they did. Not the drugs or the drinking or the sinful acts they commited between their sheets. It wasn’t in their vocabulary, because they couldn’t change what had happened and would move on, not talk about certain subjects and never shutting up about others. They moved on without regret.

The only thing Theo regretted was not telling Boris he loved him before he left for New York.

_i was home, i was home_

Theo never thought he could be homesick for a person, but when he ran off to New York by himself, knowing Boris wouldn’t be following, he felt a clench in his stomach, in his throat, in his chest. A yearning for the comfort of Boris, chest against his back, long legs tangled in Theo’s own. When he had nightmares about the museum, the suffocating smoke and the metallic stench of blood and burning flesh, he couldn’t turn to Boris and curl into his warmth. He had Popper, but he was much too small to provide any real comfort, and was nothing compared to Boris. Boris was the closest he’d been to loving someone since his mother had died, and now he didn’t have that.

He thought, frequently, about their last moments together, about the way Boris had kissed him. A soft press of his lips against Theo’s, speaking all the words he knew Boris couldn’t — wouldn’t — say. He decided, the millionth time thinking about that heart-stopping second, that he didn’t want to kiss anyone else, ever. Not Pippa, not anyone who looked like Boris, not anyone who acted like Boris. He wanted _Boris_, and he’d have rather died than have anyone else touch him, look at him, kiss him, because it would never compare to Boris.

Yeah, you could say Theo was homesick for Boris.


End file.
